FLAMING
YOUTH
37
“It’s my kid sister,” said Constance.
‘Mother will be
_ pleased !”
“Are you going to tell her?” demanded Pat. “I certainly am.” “Then I may as well have my dance before you find her,” declared the culprit calmly. “The fourteenth, a foxy little trot;
with Mr. Warren
Graves,” put in her escort cheerily. He drew her arm through his own where it nestled gratefully. Armoured though he was in the careless self-confidence of youth, young Mr. Graves winced as his partner stood revealed under the full glare of the lights. She looked so awfully and awkwardly young! Her hair was so awry, her gown so ill-fitted, her skin so splotchy. But there was magic in the long, slanted, shy, trustful eyes looking into his own, and the tingling excitation of her kiss was still in his blood. Moreover he had had a steady succession of drinks. “How old are you?” he asked in her ear as her cheek pressed close to his. “Seventeen,” she lied glibly. “Sub-deb stuff,” he laughed. “I love ’em young. You can dance, too.
Can I have the next?”
“There won’t be
- Here’s Mother.”
“Oh, Lord!”
any
next,”
said Warren
said
Graves.
Pat
tragically.
“Let me
do the
talking.” But no talking was called for. Mona Fentriss swept down upon her truant daughter, caught her in a laughing embrace, slapped one hot cheek, kissed the other, and delivered her verdict! “Back to bed with you! Quick! How did you ever get out?”
“Can’t I have just one more turn,” pleaded Pat.
